JC-NRLF 


SB    E75 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


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By 
Edith  Maida  Slurges 


San  Diego,  CaL: 

SILVER  GATE  PRESS 

Printers 


fflrs.  Starges,  formerly  Miss  Edith  Maida  Lessing,  of  Waco, 
Texas,  <ti>on  quite  a  little  prominence  in  her  native  State  'with  her 
terses;  also,  as  Poet  Laureate  of  the  Texas  Woman's  Press 
Association. 


Insurrection 

The  Race 

Love's  Garden 

Moonlight 

Tuberoses 

"You" 

Mine! 

When  He  Cometh 

Waiting 

When  We  Are  Old 

In  Havana  the  Year  We  Fought 

with  Spain 
Kismet 
Good-bye 
At  ChriStmas-tide 
Haunted 

A  Christmas  Lullaby 
My  Little  Lad 


OInntota— Qiottttnu^ 


When  Baby  Died 
In  Memory 
Missed 


Was  It  You? 

To  the  Texas  Press  Association 

The  Indians 

That  Cow 

The  Death  of  Mr.  Cox 

Taps 

When  the  "Boys"  Go  Marching  By 

Christmas  in  San  Diego 

Her  Charity 

A  Summer  Day 

Ice  Bound 

Love's  Threnody 


OF 

FO 

•  -. 


What  does  this  Life  amount  to — after  all, 
We  love — or  hate — and  then  grow  old  and  die, 

And  thus  unsatisfied,  escape  the  thrall, 

That  holds  us  prisoners  here,  we  know  not 
why. 

We  plan  and  dream,  and  dream  and  plan  again, 
And  watch  both  dreams  and  plans  escape  and 
pass, 

Brief  as  the  rainbow,  glittering  in  the  rain. 
Brief  as  summer   dew,   upon   the  grass. 

'Tis  such  a  little  while  we  linger  here; 

We  barely  learn  to  live  or  love  our  life, 
Ere  we  like  soldiers  on  the  battle  field, 

Are  cut  down  in  the  midst  of  battle  strife. 

Miserable  puppets  of  a  Master  hand, 

Made  to  smirk  and  smile,  and  weep  and  rage, 

Held  in  subjection  by  Divine  command, 

We  storm  and  strut  about  our  mimic  stage. 

What  futile   buffetings   of  Fate  are   we, 

What  thistle  down,  tossed  by  the  restless  wind. 

What  miller's  chaff — what  dust — what  nothing- 
ness! 
Seeking  a  hope,  we  do  not  dare  to  find. 


Some  of  us  who  hunger  for  the  sea, 

Must  inland  live,  land  bound  on  every  side, 
And  never  know  its  glad  waves  tumbling  free, 


Its   windswept  shore,  nor  hear  its  murmuring 
tide. 

And  those  of  us  who  crave  the  distant  plain, 
With  wealth   of  prairie,   wide  and  wild  and 

lone, 

Vast,  grand,  immutable,  must  live  entombed, 
By   four   grim   walls,    of   mortar,   brick   and 
stone. 

And    there    are    we    who    love    the    city    mart, 
Crowded,   noisy,   restless,   guilt   and   sin, 

And  these  awake  to  find  themselves,  for  life, 
In  little  sleepy  country  towns,   shut  in. 

Some  of  us  long  for  glory  swift  and  sweet, 
And  live  a  life  of  pain,  and  die  unknown, 

And  some  for  love  do  cast  our  every  die, 

And   find   ourselves   betrayed,    wrecked — left 
alone. 

Some  sit  with  idle,  loveless,  empty,  hearts, 
And  crave  a  child  to  play  about  our  door, 

Envying  the  brawling  beggar  who, 

May  count  his  dozen  half-starved  brats — or 
more. 

And  thus  we  tread  our  little  measured  track, 
Like  pawns  about  a  chess  board,  moved  and 
set, 

We  must  go  on — we  do  not  dare  go  back, 
We  long  to  cease  and  end  it  all,  and  yet — 

And  yet  the  pitiless  power  that  placed  us  here, 
Will  leave  us  not  until  the  game  is  done, 

A  game  too  deep  for  us  to  comprehend, 
Or  even  know  the  pieces  lost  and  won. 

Always  the  same,  we  have  no  power  nor  will, 


We  can  but  drift  upon  a  mighty  tide, 
Until  a  Voice  shall  say  to  us  "Be  Still," 
And  once  more  in  oblivion  we  abide. 

Always  the  same — the  same  since  guilty  Cain, 
Crept  out  of  sight  to  hide  his  shame's  despair, 

We  spring  like  fungus  grown  up  in  a  night, 
And  like  fungus,  useless — anywhere. 

Always  the  same — we  grasp  but  Dead  sea  fruit, 
The  soul's  mute  call,  no  answer  hears — nor 
can, 

There  is  a  God  whom  we  do  never  reach, 

By  Him  forgotten,  in  the  world's  great  plan. 

What  are  we  for?    Each  in  his  little  rut, 

Does  grind  and  grind,   and  walk  his  weary 
round, 

And  wait  for  better  things,  defying  Fate, 
Until  at  last  effaced  from  sight  and  sound. 

And  this  is  the  sum — content — a  piteous  farce, 
Fame — a  delusion — Hope  a  sad  defeat; 

And  Love,  a  thing  to  fool  us  mortals  with, 
A  game  where  two  must  play  and  both  shall 
cheat. 


Come — fill  up  your  flagon — there's  plenty  here. 

Drink  to  the  winner's  name, 
See!   there  he  stands  in  his  purple  robes 

Another    draught   to    his   fame! 
But  the  weary  wretch  who  creeps  along, 

Curse  him  nor  count  the  cost, 
Jostle  him  out — give  him  a  blow, 

Not  a  tear  for  him — who  lost. 

Bring  on  your  garlands — heap  them  high 

Fling  cut  the   rose  of  Love, 
For    Beauty   stands    in    servile    grace, 

As  timid  as  a  dove. 
The  rose  of  Love — to  the  vanquished  goes? 

No   crush  it  nor  count  the  cost — 
Better   dead   'neath   the   victor's   feet, 

Than  to  be  flung  to  him — who  lost. 

Praise  the   winner  and   shout  his  name, 

Smile   in   his   greedy  face. 
Cower  and  tremble  low  at  his  knee, 

And  praise  his  coveted  place. 
Sneer  at  the  vanquished — crowd  him  out, 

Crush  him  at  any  cost, 
Bubble — oh,  wine,  for  the  winner's  lips, 

There's  nothing   for   him   who   lost. 


'0 


Love  wants  no  precept,  of  rod  or  priest. 

Love  yields  a  lifetime,  in  one  brief  hour. 

And  that  one  hour  were  more  at  least, 

Than  a  thousand  life-times,  without  its  power. 

Love  wants  no  chains,  but  its  own  desire. 

No  bonds  to  hold — no  prison-cells. 

At  the   thought   of  restraint,   Love  chafes  and 

flies. 
As  morning  dew  that  the  sun  dispells. 

Touch  your  butterfly  to  confine, 
And  its  broken  wings,  from  your  finger  fall. 
Imprison   the   Luccioles,   wanton   light, 
And  the  wandering  firefly  dies  to  all. 

Love  wants  no  answer,  but  love-sweet  eyes, 

No  music  but  whisper  of  soul,  and  smile. 

No  hope — but  the  quickening  that  comes  but 

once, 
And  makes  crucifixion  well  worth  while. 

No   eloquence,   but  the  lingering  kiss, 
Warm  and  silent,  and  passion-fraught, 
Beside  whose  exultant,  awakening  thrill, 
Speech  were  vacant  and  words  were  naught. 

Love  wants  no  walls,  but  crimson  aisles, 
Of  dreaming  lillies,  to  wander  by; 
No  light  but  that  of  the  throbbing  stars; 
No    roof,    but   the   night's   tender    canopy. 

And  in  Love's  garden  the  thorns  are  hid, 


By  the  flush  of  poppies  blood-red  glow. 
A  garden  of  passion,  and  hopes  and  dreams, 
And  bitter-sweet  longing — that  all  must  know. 
Here  peace  bends  low  o'er  the  water's  edge, 
When  comes  as  a  whisper  from  gods  on  high, 
Laden  with  the  breath  of  a  thousand  flowers, 
"The  touch  or  Eros,  in  passing  by. 

In  its  fairness,  to  some,  is  the  lost  mirage 
And  deep  in  its  melodies  madness  creeps, 
And  hid  in  its  cold,  white  magnolia  blooms, 
The  dark  dread,  death-stinging  aspic  sleeps. 

And  having  once  dreamed,  for  an  hour  here, 
The   heart   rebels,   at  the   rugged   plain , 
For  the  spell  of  the  garden's  poisoned  sweets, 
Ever  comes  haunting  the  soul  again. 

Ay,   the  soul  rebels  at  the   rugged  plain, 
Through  the  fire  of  hate — and  the  stab  of  pride, 
And  ever  in  longing,  looks  back,  and  wails — 
"Unsatisfied,  unsatisfied.  ^ 


4Hmrali0I|t 


Oh,  give  me  a  draught  of  the  moonlight  wine, 
Poured  out  white,  from  her  heart  to  mine; 
Oh,  never  was  quaffing  of  port  or  Rhine, 

That  could  blot  out  my  life's  despair 
Like  this  subtle  sense — so  deep — so  thrilling — 
As  sad  as  death,  and  as  sweet  and  chilling, 
That  steeps  all  my  soul,  by  its  splendor  stilling- 

The  smile  of  the  moon  so  fair. 

Oh,  give  me  a  draught  of  the  moonlight  wine, 
When  friends  grow  cold  and  creditors  whine 
Like   perfume  from   hidden   crypt  or  shrine 

It  steals  to  my  heart  and  brain, 
Till  I  swoon  to  her  kiss — the  world  forgetting, 
Nor  ruin,  nor  wreck,  nor  love,  regretting, 
Nor  the  tangled  skein  that  my  Fate  is  netting, 

With  the  sable  threads  of  pain. 

O,  give  me  a  draught  of  the  moonlight's  wine, 

Let  me  be  drowned  in  its  power  divine, 

Let  me  bathe  in  it,  lave  in  it — mine,  all  mine! 

Till  my  soul   be  soothed  and  still, 
What  is  the  world  and  its  empty  madness, 
Its  running  and  cunning — and  wanton  badness, 
It's  surfeits  of  sin  ^  or  its  wails  of  sadness, 

When  the  white  moon  works  her  will. 


Oh    tuberoses!    fragrant,    waxen,    white — 
Howfyour  touch  chills  me  ariid  thrills  me  tonight! 
And  that  old  dead  June  drifts  out  from  the  past, 
So  sudden,  so  sweet,  and  too  brief  to  last  * 
Tuberoses!     Ah,  and  he  kissed  my  throat, 
And  he  crushed  your  perfume  against  my  face. 
We  parted — and  he  from  my  side  passed  out 
Into  the  world's  unfathomable  space. 
And  oh,  since  then,  when  I  feel  your  breath, 
It  goes  to  my  heart  like  a  draught  of  wine: 
The  pain  and  the  madness,  sweet  as  death, 
Scorch  me  again  with  a  fire  divine. 
For  one  brief  moment  the  past  uncloses 
To  the  cold,  sweet  touch  of  white  tuberoses. 


I   wonder,   sometimes,   why  I   hate  you, 

Why  my  heart,  when  you  go  by, 
Quickens  its  beating1,   within  my  toreast, 
Like   the   ocean's   ceaseless  mad  unrest, 
Why  do  I  hate  you — why? 

I  hated  you  first,  when  you  passed  me, 

'Twas  chill  and  growing  late; 
Though  I  knew  you  not,  nor  yet  your  name, 
Your   dusky   eyes   set   my   heart   aflame, 

With    the    maddening    thirst    of   hate. 

I  hate  your  red  lips  smiling, 

And  I  burn  with  enkindled  wrath; 
And  a  look  in  your  eyes,  as  they  meet  mine, 
Brings  a  memory  back,  I  cannot  define, 
That  you  once  have  crossed  my  path. 

Your  face  is  as  pure  as  the  haw-buds, 

That  sweet   in   the   springtime   blow. 

But  your  windswept  gown,  and  flying  feet, 

When  you  pass  me  by  in  the  noisy  street, 

Makes  the  hate  in  my  heart  to  glow. 

Can   it  be   that  in  some   past  ages, 

'Neath  a  tropical,  foreign,  sun, 
We  battled  together — you  and  I, 
For  something  desired,  in  days  gone  by, 

And   I   the   defeated  one? 


"Mine!" — and  the  infant  weeps  to  hold 
The  dandled  toy  in  his  baby  hands; 

"Mine!" — and  the  man  in  the  money  mart 
Sets  his  seal  upon  love  or  lands. 

"Mine!" — and  a  nation's  voice  proclaims; 

And  blood  is  spilled  upon  sea  and  plain. 
And  men  go  down  with  prayer,  or  with  curse, 

Under  the  hell  of  the  bullet's  rain. 

From  the  throne  of  grace,  an  all-wise  God 
Looks   down  in   pity  and   love   divine, 

On  the  handful  of  restless,  warring  things 
That   His   will   hath    made,    and   calls   them 
"Mine!" 


He  shall  come  in  princely  power  most  splendid, 
By  the  glory  and  pomp  of  heaven  attended. 
He  shall  sit  on  His  throne  and  command  His 

own, 
And  the  reign  of  earthly  kings  be  ended. 

And  wind  and  storm  and  hurricane, 

Wild  things  that  swept  across  the  world, 
And  tossed  and  tore  and  leaped  and  whirled 
Like  wild  dogs  leashed,  shall  leap  in  vain. 
No  more  shall  thunder  bolts  be  hurled, 
Or   lightning    pierce   the   earth   again. 
Volcano's    blast    or    earthquake's    shock, 
That   once   were   wont   to   rend   and   rock, 
Shall  feel  His  hand,  and  trembling,  cease 
Before  the  Prince  of  Power  and  Peace. 

The  sea  that  sweeps  from  shore  to  shore 

Shall  beat  itself  about  no  more, 

But   lie  at  rest  upon   the  sands 

Subjected    to    Divine    commands 

The  beasts  of  the  wood,  untamed  and  wild, 

Shall   do  no  hurt  to   man  or  child, 

But  come  in  meek,  submissive  awe, 

To  recognize  Him — Love  and  Law* 

And  birds  shall  come  in  flocks  and  droves 

Prom  crags  and  nooks,  and  fields  and  groves; 
Shall    chant   a   matin    loud   and   long, 
Shall  burst  their  little  throats  with  song — 
One   grand,    majestic   anthem   sing. 
Acknowledging  Him   God  and  King. 


And  toads  and  worms,  and  creeping  things, 
Shall  lose  their  vileness  and  their  stings, 
And  from  their  curse  shall  be  set  free 
To  creep  to  Him  in  purity. 

From  out  their  revels  and  haunts  of  sin, 
Men  and  women  shall  gather  in 
To  learn  His  judgment,  shall  there  assemble, 
Shall  crouch  and  cower,  and  whine  and  tremble. 
Shall  crouch  and  cower  and  beg  and  whine 
For  the  bartered  light  of  His  smile  divine. 

Rulers  and  potentates  and  kings 
"""Snail  f eeTrhs  knowledge  and  power  take  wings, 

And  before  Him  come,  awe-struck  and  dumb, 
Piteous,    wretched,    cringing   things. 

The  wise  shall  gather  from  all  the  earth, 
The  pompous  and  proud,  and  vain  of  birth, 
And  fall  at  His  feet  and  pray  and  entreat, 
And  know  their  nothingness  then,  complete. 

And  they  who  have  ground  their  fellows  down, 

Hoarding  each  atom,  and  tithe  of  gold, 

Who  have   trampled   and   crushed   to   the  very 

dust, 

And  left  the  good  in  their  hearts  to  rust, 
Shall  swoon  in  despair  before  His  face, 
Pleading  for  mercy  and   pardon  and  grace. 
They  shall  boast  of  the  good  their  gold  has  done 
And  prate  of  the  little  course  they  run. 
And  each  little,  starved-out,  narrow  soul, 
Shall  lie  before  Him,  unchanged  and  whole, 
Naked  as   lies  the   child,   new-born, 
To  crave  His  pity  and  feel  His  scorn. 

And  beggars,  like  rats,  from  their  haunts  shall 


creep, 

Dirty,    diseased,   and   dull   with   sleep. 
They  shall  kiss  His  garment  and  feel  His  touch, 
Humble  and  lowly,   and  trusting  much. 
They  shall  rise  in  splendor  and  join  the  horde 
Of  purified  souls,  who  shall  praise  His  word. 
The  halt  and  maimed  and  blind  shall  come, 

And   they  shall   see   that  He  is   truth 
And  stand  before  Him,  mute  and  dumb, 

Feeling-  again  the  thrill  of  youth. 

The  spawn  of  hell,  and  filth  and  crime, 

All  prisoners  in  prison  kept, 
Shall  fall  before  His  face  sublime, 

And   weeping,   feel   that  He   has  wept. 


For  a  thousand  years  the  King  shall  reign, 

With  wrong  subdued  and  right  upheld. 
Poverty,   pitiful,   and  pain, 

By  His  dear  love  shall  be  repelled, 
And  then  shall  drunkenness  and  vice 
And  all  the  hidden  deeds  of  night 

Of  ribald  man  and  wanton  maid 
From   out  the   universe   take  flight. 
Anarchy   shall    cease    its    being, 
Hatred  and  unjust  law  shall   cease 
Before  the  powerful  Prince  of  Peace, 
All  torturing  tribunes  gives  release, 
And  Justice — live,  not  blind,  but  seeing. 
No  more  shall  warring  hordes  go  forth 
To  seek  and  slay  their  fellowmen, 
Nor  barter  kingdoms  for  a  song, 
Nor  sell  their  very  souls  for  gain. 

Virtuous  women,  fair  and  true, 


And  noble  men  as  true  and  brave, 
Steadfast  of  purpose,  staunch  and  strong, 

Shall  use  the  power  the  Giver  gave, 
And   honor   and   truth   shall   dwell   round   the 

throne 

When  the  Lord  God  of  Hosts  comes  back  to 
His   own. 


I  do  not  know  if  her  face  be  fair, 
If  her  eyes  be  blue  or  brown. 
I    only   know,    it   is   always   there — 
The  sweetest  voice  in  town. 

"Waiting?" — So  still  and  soft  it  comes 
That  low  sweet  undertone. 
So  close  in  my  ear  it  startles  me, 
The  voice  of  the  girl  at  the  'phone. 

She  does  not  know  that  she  stirs  me  so, 
That  my  thoughts  go  flying  away, 
To  those  old  sweet  childish  dreams  of  mine, 
That  are  vanished — and  gone,  for  aye. 


"Waiting?" — For  what,  am  I  waiting? 
For  a  few  idle  words,  with  a  friend, 
Who,  three  miles  across  the  city, 
Hears — at   the  other  end? 

Waiting!     For  what  are  we  waiting? 
For  glory,  or  wealth,  or  love? 
Waiting  for  fall  of  empire? 
Or  for  battle  clouds  to  move? 


Some  of  us  wait  and  are  waiting, 
And  have  waited — all  these  years, 
To  kiss  once  more  a  mother's  face, 
That  we  parted  from — in  tears. 


Some  of  us  wait,  in  agony, 
For   a  tortured  souls   release, 
Waiting — for  mercy  and   pardon, 
Waiting — for  rest  and  peace. 

We  wait — Oh  yes — for  forgiveness, 
And  we  wait,  and  are  waiting — still, 
As  we  grope,  in  Life's  Gethsemane, 
To  know  our  Father's  will. 

Some  of  us  wait,  for  a  ship  to  come  home, 
To  its  harbor  through  wind  and  wave, 
And  some  of  us  wait  for  flowers  to  bloom, 
On   a  little  infants  grave. 

"Waiting?" — And  I  awaken, 

From  the  dream,  where  my  thoughts  have  flown. 

To  answer  the  gentle  voice  of  the  girl, 

At  the  other  end  of  the  'phone. 

Sometimes — I  almost  tell  her — 
That  I  long  have  ceased  to  wait, 
To  attain  my  old  ambitions — 
That  I  bend  to  the  hand  of  fate. 

And  I  drift  where  the  tide  will  take  me, 

Away  to  the  open  sea — 

But  I  hope  to  enter  the  haven, 

By  the  Hand,  that  is  guiding  me. 


The  car  was  crowded — the  seats  were  full — 
All  going  out  to  their  homes  to  rest, 

Idle   and   gay  and   tired  and  sad, 
Satin   and   rags   and   Sunday   best. 

One  more  passenger  straggled  in 

And  found  a  corner  in  which  to  stand, 

Glancing  in  vain  for  a  empty  seat, 

As  she  clung  to  the  strap  with  her  palsied 
hand. 


A  shabby  old  woman,  crooked  and  bent, 
With  life's  sad  story  on  face  and  form, 

A  frail  old  craft  that  had  sailed  the  sea, 

And    was   nearing   the   haven   through   wind 
and  storm. 

Nobody  gave  her  a  seat,  and  all 

Gazed  at  her  coldly  and  turned  aside 

And  drew  in  their  skirts  from  her  soiled  gown, 
And  sat  and  chattered  in  empty  pride. 

A  wave  of  pity  swept  over  my  heart. 

Though   my  arms  with   bundles  were   laden 

down, 
And  I  gave  the  trembling  thing  my  place, 

And  stood  and  watched  the  passengers  frown. 

Ah,  her  miserable  smile,  how  it  cut  my  heart. 

Oh,  why  is  the  world  so  hard  and  cold? 
We  scorn   the  wretched  and  shun  the  poor, 


And  show  contempt  for  the  weak  and  old. 

We,  too,  may  some  day  be  worn  and  bent, 
And  weary  and  old,  and  forlorn  and  sad, 

With  no  tender  hands  to  smooth  our  way, 
And  no  sweet  voices  to  make  us  glad. 

We  may  shiver  and  tremble  before  the  crowd, 
The  gay,  idle  crowd  that  knows  no   care, 

That  softens  no  heartache,  stills  not  pain, 
Whose  sky  is  all  sunny  and  sweet  and  fair. 

With  worn,  tired  feet,  and  sorrowing  hearts, 
We  may  feebly  totter  toward  our  rest, 

Outliving  our  hopes,  and  desires,  and  youth, 
With  life's  sad  secrets — and  sorely  prest. 

Ah,  then  for  a  tender  hand  or  a  smile, 

When  the  night  draws  near  and  the  winds 
are  cold, 

God  pity  us  all  who  are  so  bereft 

Of  all  life's  sweetness — when  we  are  old. 


v     or 

• 


I  am  tired  of  the  city's  deafening  roar, 
I  am  tired  of  the  constant  ceaseless  tread, 

Of  the  many  feet  that  pass  my  door, 
Of  busy  seekers  for  daily  bread. 

I  am  tired  of  the  rush  and  noise  and  crowd, 
I  want  to  go  back  to  the  shores  again, 

Where  the  showers  of  bullets  fell  like  rain, 
Where  men  were  cut  down  like  garnered  grain, 

Where  shell  and  shrapnel,  tore  and  plowed, 
Where  sunset  or  sunrise,  either,  found, 

A    harvest    of    dead    men    stretched    on    the 
ground. 

When  a  man  has  once  been  through  the  hell, 
Of  the  battles  fury  of  shot  and  shell, 

It  is  not  easy  to  settle  down, 
To  a  desk  and  a  pen  in  a  busy  town, 

Though  some  men  can,  but  not  the  man, 
Who  has  known  the  sorrow  that  came  to  me, 

In  that  old  world  city  beside  the  sea; 
Who  found  Heaven  and  Hell  in  a  month's  brief 
span, 

In  Havana  the  year 
That  we  fought  with  Spain. 

It  was  after  the  battle's  roar  was  done, 
I  lay  on  the  field  while  the  stars  shone  down, 

And  thought  of  the  victory  we  had  won, 
That  would  bring  to  our  nation  a  world's  re- 


The  blood  crept  out  from  a  wound  in  my  side, 
And  I  felt  that  the  ebbing1  crimson  tide,  would 

bear  out  my  soul — and  I  grew  weak. 
Then   1   felt  Death's   coldness   on   hand   and 

cheek, 
And  came  a  blackness — I  knew  no  more. 

I   opened   my   eyes   after   many   days, 
When   burning  fever,   had  spent  its  way. 

Opened  my  eyes  to  a  woman's  face, 
Whose  wondrous  beauty  filled  all  the  place. 

A  little  brown  maiden  with  dusky  eyes, 
Who  held  in  the  touch  of  her  little  hand, 

A  power  I  never  could  understand. 
She  started  the  blood  in  my  veins  to  life, 

And  set  me  to  loving  her.     When  she  turned, 
And  looked  at  me  soft-eyed — then  I  learned, 

That  the  hope  of  earth,  and  the  far  off  skies, 
Is  centered  sometimes  in  a  woman's  eyes. 

She  was  a  Cuban,  and  lived  alone, 
In  a  hut,  that  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  town, 

Father  and  mother  and  brothers  had  died. 
They  called  her  a  witch  for  her  strength  and 
pride, 

A  strength  and  pride — they  couTd  not  break 

down. 
She  stabbed  a  man  once  who  had  come  too  near, 

She  struck  him  down — the  dog  that  he  was, 
She  put  her  foot  on  the  coward's  neck, 

And  dared  them  to  touch  her.     Half  in  fear, 
Half  in  jesting  they  shrunk  away, 

All  of  them  cowards  with  nothing  to  say. 

How  she  hated  and  loathed  them,  but  to  me 


She  was  all  that  endurance  and  love  could  be, 

She   tended   the    wound   that   the   shell   had 

shattered, 
And  gave  me  to  eat.    Ah,  but  little  it  mattered, 

That  the  summer  days  were  hot  and  long, 
That  nations  were  warring  for  right  or  wrong, 

If  she  could  but  soothe  me  with  smile  or  song, 
And  make  one  to  know,  I  was  growing  strong. 

When  the  wound  had  healed  I  made  her  my 

wife, 
Then  one  short  week — It  was  all  my  (life, 

And  I  marched  off  to  the  front  again, 
To  shoot  and  be  shot  at  by  dogs  of  Spain, 

Back  to  the  horror  and  blood  and  dying, 
Back  to  the  shell  and  bullets  flying, 

And  the  summer  breeze  o'er  the  dead  men 

sighing. 
Then  it  came  to  an  end — as  all  things  end, 

Over  the  land,  breathed  the  voice  of  peace, 
And   we   tired   soldiers   found   release, 

And  set  us  to  longing  for  home  and  friend. 

Then  I  sought  out  her  hut,  but  all  I  found, 
Was  heap  of  ashes  spread  on  the  ground, 

And  the  chimney  standing,  a  spectre  lone, 
Guarding  the  spot,  that  our  love  had  known. 

I  have  never  found  her,  nor  do  I  know 
If  she  be  in  Heaven  or  here  below, 

But  I  get  restless  on  nights  like  these, 
And  the  moonlight  yonder  across  the  town, 

And  the  touch  on  the  face  ,of  the  soft  night 

breeze, 
Blowing  fresh  and  damp  from  the  southern  seas, 

Makes  a  mad  thing  of  me,  I  seem  to  feel, 
The  clasp  of  warm  brown  arms  that  are  cling- 
ing, 


A  voice  that  low  in  my  ear  is  ringing, 
The  scent  of  her  breath  and  her  dusky  hair, 
Her  rose  blossom  mouth,  and  her  face  so  fair, 

And  the  silken  sweep  of  her  gown 
Nor  raging  nor  raving  can  still  the  pain, 

That  comes  back  to  torture  my  heart  again, 
The  pain  of  the  love  that  I  found  and  lost, 

In  Havana  the  year  that 
We  fought  with  Spain. 


SCismet 


He  wished  her  "Good-bye"  at  the  gate, 

To  leave  her  was  a  task, 
He   craved   to   speak,   and   learn   his   fate, 

But  did  not  dare  to  ask. 
A  cloud  went  drifting  o'er  the  moon, 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  hand; 
She  stood  and  coldly  smiled  at  him, 

And  would  not  understand. 

He  wished  her  "Good-bye"  at  the  gate, 

And  when  he'd  left  her  side, 
She  knew  that  she  had  marred  her  fate, 

By  her  relentless  pride. 
Before  her  stretched  the   hopeless  years; 

She   might  live   to  be  old! 
She  stayed  and  sobbed  an   hour  there, 

Whom   he   had   thought  so   cold. 

They  met  once  more,  in  after  life, 

As  people  often  meet; 
He,   with   his  grown-up  sons,   and   wife 

In  a  crowded  city  street; 
He  shivered  as  he  met  her  gaze, 

And   when   he   touched   her  hand, 
Too  late — across  the  waste  of  years, 

They  both  did  understand. 


Say  "good-bye"  and  let  us  part, 

What's  the  use  o'  crying? 
What   means   words   atween   us   two? 

Ther'  ain't  no  use  a  sighin'. 

Tears  my  heart  to  leave  you  so, 

'D  rather  die  to-morrow, 
Than  let  them  eyes  o?  yourn  meet  mine 

With    such    a    look    o'    sorrow. 

Thought  she's  dead  a  year  ago, 
She  went  and  lef  me  weepin' 
Lef  the  home-nes'  an*  the  vines, 
Lef   the   baby  sleepin'. 

Heard  she's  dead — an*  then  found  you — 

Don't  look  at  me  so,  "Honey;" 
Rather  'n  you'd  think  I'm  to  blame, 

I'd   rather  lose  a  world   o'   money. 

Put  your  arms  around  my  neck, 
An*   kiss  me  once — jes'   so,   dear; 

The  game's  called  'fore  we'd  turned  the  cards; 
Good-bye — I'll  hev'   ter  go,  dear. 


At 


Oh  the  dull  cold  grey  of  the  afternoon, 

The  chill  of  winter  is  in  the  sky, 

The  birds  go  Southward  in  search  of  June, 

And  a  few  poor  roses  have  bloomed  to  die. 

I  think  of  you  and  your  face  so  fair, 

And  the  silken  gleam  of  your  yellow  hair. 

It    was    Christmas    tide — four    years    ago, 
Christmas  tide — that  you  broke  your  vow, 
A  Christmas  white  with  the  drifted  snow. 
I  wonder  little  one,  where  you  are  now? 
Out  in   the   world,   I  guess,   somewhere, 
Tangling    lives    with    your    yellow    hair. . 

Your  yellow  hair,  that  gleamed  and  shone, 
And  clung  round  your  head  a  halo  of  gold, 
You  looked  like  a  queen  of  days  long  gone, 
Told  in  legends  of  Norsetime  old. 
And  I  thrilled  at  the  thought,  and  would  some- 
times dare 
Kiss    the   silken    ends   of   your   golden    hair. 

How   I    trusted    and   dreamed — how   I    trusted 

and  dreamed, 
By  the  dead  Christ's  pain,  I'd  have  sworn  you 

true, 

For  of  all  sweet  women  on  earth  there  seemed, 
None  other  so  faithful  and  sweet  as  you. 
And  you  bound  me  stronger  than  vows  could 

swear, 
By  each  shining  thread  of  your  yellow  hair. 


It  was  madman's  folly  I  know — and  still 

I  dream   of  you   always — on   days  like   this, 

For  you  swayed  me  once  like  a  slave  at  your 

will, 

And  bent  me  to  dust  at  your  feet  for  a  kiss. 
And  I  risked  my  all  on  your  face  so  fair, 
And  the  glittering  coils  of  your  golden  hair. 

You  are  his  by  law — you  are  mine  by  love, 
Mine  by  your  vow  that  you  reckless,  gave, 
In  the  sight  of  the  King  of  the  court  above. 
You  are  mine  and  shall  be — beyond  the  grave. 
For  though  you  were  false  as  you  were  fair, 
You  chained  my  soul  with  your  yellow  hair. 


My  ship  sailed  out  in  the  Summer  time 

When    the   sunny   skies   were   blue, 

And  its  hold  was  laden  with  hopes  and  dreams 

And    the    plan    of    a    purpose    true. 

I  watched  it  across  the  sunlit  sea 

'Till  my  waiting  eyes  grew  dim, 

And  I  said  "God  send  it  back  to  me, 

Safe,   through  its  perils  grim." 

I  found  it  again — after  many  years, 

Afar  in  the  frozen  north — 

Shattered  its  sails,  and  its  beauty  wrecked, 

Which  in  majesty,  had  sailed  forth. 

The  frozen  bergs,  on  either  side, 

Towered  up  to  a  frozen  sky, 

While  borne  on  the  bosom  of  the  tide, 

The  isles  of  ice  sailed  by. 

*  *  *  *  * 

I  gathered  my  wreck  and  I  brought  it  in, 
To  my  sunlit  shores  with  me, 
But  the  treasure  I  laid,  in  its  secret  hold, 
Was  lost  in  that  frozen  sea. 


Oh  tender  maiden,  life  is  sweet, 
Love's  votive  offering  at  your  feet, 
Your  rapture  seems  almost  complete — 
Then  tell  me  why  you  falter. 

Is   it  because — Oh  timid  maid, 
Within  your  heart  you  are  afraid, 
This  Love  for  which  your  soul  has  prayed, 
May  one  day  change  and  alter? 

I  would  that  words  of  mine  could  still, 
The  doubts  and  fears  that  bode  you  ill, 
That  oft  recur  against  your  will, 
But  could  I,  would  I  do  it? 
I  know  that  life  is  dim  and  strange, 
We  grope  for  shadows  at  long  range, 
And  all  things  subjected  to  change — • 
So  those  who  love  must  rue  it. 

For  when  the  fires  of  love  have  died, 
And  cold  has  grown  the  scarlet  tide, 
Which  scorched  the  soul,  and  rent  the  pride, 
In  mad  relentless  fashion. 
No  law  on  earth,  no  prince  in  hell, 
No   power,   no   pain,   can   force   a  spell, 
By  cross,   or  crown,   by  ring  or  bell, 
Whose    bonds    will    fetter    passion! 


What    can    it    be    that    calls    me — calls    me — 

calls  me — 

Calls  me  at  night — at  dawn — at  burning  noon. 
From    out    the   waves — from    out   the   sighing 

trees, 
From  out  the  cloud  dimmed  splendour  of  the 

moon, 

Why  do  I  stop  sometimes  and  dazed  stand, 
And  with  a  strange  vague  ecstasy  rejoice  ? — 
Because  some  vagrant  tone  amid  the  throng, 
Awakes  the  memoried  music  of  your  voice. 

Why  do  I  pause  sometimes  in  revels  gay, 
And  feel  the  world  slip  from  me  like  a  dream, 
Seeing  a  sea  of  dim  blurred  faces  pass, 
Which     suddenly    most    strange    and    vacant 

seem  ? — 

Because  for  one  mad  moment  I  forget 
The    awful    wrecking    of    our    Paradise, 
And  see  through  misty  tears  that  drain  my  soul 
The  well  remembered  heaven  of  your  eyes. 


A 


Sleep  Baby. 

In  the  silent  hours  of  slumber. 

Once   a  mother  watched  like  me. 

Kissed   her   babe's   soft   crumpled   fingers, 

Stroked  his  fair  cheek  tenderly. 

And  the   herds  stood   all  about  her, 

For  the  cradle  where  he  lay, 

Was  an  old  and  dingy  manger, 

Hard  and  cold  and  filled  with  hay. 

Could  she  feel  he  was  divine? 
Baby  mine. 

Sleep  Baby. 

No  rich  walls  adorned  with  pictures, 

As  there  are  for  you  and  me. 

Cobwebbed  rafters,  wild-eyed  cattle, 

All  there  were  for  her  to  see. 

"All  the  little  birds  have  nests," 

But  in  all  the  world  'tis  said, 

The  Son  of  Man  had  on  his  birth-night, 

Not  a  place  to  lay  his  head. 

No  soft  cushions  as  are  thine, 
Baby  mine. 

Sleep  Baby. 

I  can  feel  her  mother's  passion, 
In  the  stable's  midnight  dim, 
Fearful  even   of  the  Wise   Men, 
Who  had  come  to  worship  Him, 


Till  she  heard  the  Angels  singing, 
"Peace  on  Earth,  Good  Will  to  Men, 
For  to  you  is  born  a  Saviour, 
Lift  your  hearts  to  God  again." 

Kissed  His   eyes  as  I  kiss  thine, 
Baby  mine. 


He  grows  more  boyish,  day  by  day; 
He  comes  in,  breathless,  from  his  play, 
And   has  such   funny  things  to   say; 
I  sometimes  wonder  where  can  be, 
The  warm,   soft,  tiny,  nestling,   thing, 
That  used  to  cuddle  close  by  me, 
And  slumber  gently,  while  I'd  sing. 

Some  day  he'll  be  a  cold,  hard  man, 
To  take  his  part  in  life's  great  plan, 
And  crush  and  trample  as  men  can; 
And  with  my  shadows,  I  shall  sit, 
Too  empty  hearted  then — to  weep, 
While  hallowed  memories,  round  me  flit, 
And  rock  my  shadow — babe,  to  sleep. 


When  baby  died  and  went  away, 
Polly  en'   me  was   out  at  play, 
En'  ol'  Miss  Jones  stuck  out  her  head: 
"Children,  come  in — the  baby's  dead, 
D'you  want  ter  see  the  corpse?"  en'  we 
Jes'   run   in   awful   fast  to  see. 
We  didn't  know  what  a  corpse  was  then. 
We  thought  'twas  somethin'  skeery — en* 
We  slipped  in  so  still  en'  soft, 
For  fear  'twould  get  us — never  laughed 
Nor  nothen.     On  her  little  bed, 
With  sunshine  streamin'  'round  her  head, 
En'  her  ol'  raggy  doll  hugged  up  tight. 
She  was  asleep,  en'  not  a  mite 
Of  noise.     I  looked  at  Polly,  en'  her  at  me, 
En'  we  wondered  where  the  corpse  could  be, 
En'  all  the  neighbors  sat  en'  sighed, 
When   baby   died. 

When  baby  died 

The  whole  big  room 

Was  filled  with  flowers,  en'  their  perfume 
Corned   stealin'    out   along   the    hall, 
En'   nobody  noticed   us  at   all, 
Nor  washed  my  face  nor  combed  my  hair, 
Nor  even  heard  my  little  prayer. 
En*  Polly,  she  runned  down  the  street, 
Without   her   hat,    in    her   stockin'    feet, 
En'  didn't  git  spanked.     I  could  a  stole 
A  great  big  pie  en'  eat  it  whole, 


But  I  didn't  want  ter.     Took  no  pride 
In  eatin', 

After  baby  died. 

When  baby  died — 

My  grandpa  come, 
En'  set  around  like  he  was  dumb, 
En'  a  million  carriages  or  more 
Was  packed  en'  jammed  about  our  door, 
En'  two  men  passed  en'  one  said,  "whew! 
"I  guess  they's  a  party  here,  don't  you?" 
En'  Jim,   the  bootblack,  frowned,   en'  said: 
"This  here  boy's  little  sister's  dead," 
En'  I  felt  awful  proud,  you  see, 
Like  the  whole  blame  thing  belonged  to  me, 
Fer  Polly  en'  me,  we  stood  outside, 
To  see  the  show — 

When  baby  died. 

When  baby  died — 

The    whole    long   night 

Pa    walked    the    floor    'til    plum    daylight, 
En'    Polly   en'    me    kept   wide   awake, 
Countin'   the  steps  that  he  would  take, 
En'   sweet   Aunt  Nell   come   in   en'   said 
We  had  ter  be  good,  now  sis  was  dead, 
So  that  after  while,  when  we  come  to  die 
She  would  flutter  down  from  the  big,  blue  sky, 
A  soft  white  angel,  en'  lift  us  in, 
Out   o'   this   big   ol'   world   of  sin. 
But    mother — she    just    cried    en'    cried, 
Like    her   heart    was    broke, 

When    baby    died. 


&  &  ® 


3fn 


"Lines  to  your  Darling's  memory!" 
Oh    yes,    I    will   gladly   write, 
If  thoughts  of  mine  can  picture, 
Your  baby  to  you,   tonight. 

But  oh,   can  my  words  awaken 
The  form,  the  grave  bonds  hold, 
Or  touch  into  living  beauty, 
Once  more  those  curls  of  gold? 

Can  I  fill  the  room  with  her  laughter, 
Or  the  sound  of  her  flying  feet, 
Or  press  to  your  hungry  lips  again, 
Her  kisses,   so  moist  and  sweet? 

Can    I    still    that    fierce    dumb    longing, 
In   the   solemn   hours  of  night, 
When  you  wake  with  a  rush  of  memory 
That  her  soul  has  winged  its  flight. 

Wherever  you  look  you  miss  her. 
How  bleak  seems  your  life  and  chill! 
When  you  realize  that  through  all  the  way, 
To  the  end  you  will  miss  her  still. 

Do  you  feel  when  you  go  home  at  even, 
A  terror  far  worse  than  Death? 
Do  you  tremble  at  sight  of  her  doll  or  toys, 
With    a   sob   that   chokes  your   breath? 

Then  what  can  I  say  to  comfort, 
Since  the  light  of  your  life  is  gone, 
To  help  you  to  bravely  bear  your  pain, 
Till   "the   coming  of  the   dawn?" 


We  stood  beside  his  little  grave  today; 
Dead  leaves  had  piled  in  drifts  upon  the  mound. 
We  hushed  our  voices,  there  above  his  clay, 
So  unresponsive,  now  to  any  sound. 
The  wind  kept  sighing — sighing  as  it  passed. 
We  bent  our  heads,  the  blinding  tears  to  hide. 
The  house  has  been  a  lonely,  lonely  place, 
To  "Mother,"  since  the  day  that  "Baby"  died. 

His  toys  lie  scattered  all  about  the  yard. 
A  broken   bicycle — a  little  rusty  gun. 
Marbles  and  tops,  and  bits  of  iron  and  sticks, 
Just  as  he  left  them  when  the  day  was  done. 
The  room  is  never  littered  now  with  scraps, 
Or  little  muddy  boot-tracks  on  the  floor; 
His  little  busy,  planning,  hands  are  still; 
His  sweet,  voice  answers  to  our  call  no  more. 

The  doves  he  played  with,  coo  the  whole  day 

long, 

Mournful  and  sad  as  if  they  miss  him,  yet. 
The  dog  he  petted,  hunts  for  him  and  whines, 
Whines  at  his  name,  and  faithful  can't  forget. 
When  night  comes  on,  his  little  form  we  miss, 
His  soft,  brown  eyes,  and  golden  curly  head; 
The  rosy  lips  we  used  to  love  to  kiss — 
For  oh!     The  little  laughing  boy  is  dead. 


The  baby  fingers, 
Are  cold  and  still, 

That  warm  to  my  heart  I've  pressed. 

And  the  form  so  slight, 
Lies    rigid   and    white, 

In  the  mocking  grave  clothes  dressed. 

There  is  something  I  miss, 
F^rom    my    path    today, 

That  was  of  my  life  a  part. 

And  the  clutching  pain, 
Comes  again  and  again, 

And  tightens  about  my  heart. 

I  hear  the  clods, 
Pall   one  by   one, 

I  hold  my  trembling  breath. 

'Tis  not  a  prayer, 
I  utter  there, 

I  hate,  I  hate  you  death! 

I  have  tasted  the  cup, 
With  the  bitterness, 

Perhaps   the   clouds  may  lift. 

Have  I  turned  from  the  grace 
Of  the  Giver's  face, 

To  idolize  the  gift? 


Has  ift  |0«? 


'Twas  not  the  sound  of  martial  notes 

Upon  the  pulsing  air, 
That  made  her  to  the  window  fly 

And   breathlessly  stand   there. 

'Twas  not  the  sight  of  banners  gay, 
Nor   knightly   troops   arrayed, 

That  held  the  quick  and  pulsing  gaze 
Of  this  entrancing  maid. 

'Twas  neither  grand  nor  pomp  nor  show, 

It  was — it  was — alas! 
She  had  but  to  the  window  flown 

To  watch  the  postman — pass. 


In  the  days  of  old — so  run  an  ancient  tale, 
The  gods  made  men,  then  came  from  far  and 

wide, 

The  Fates,  to  them  endow  with  all  things  good, 
Each  with  her  gift  bag  hanging  at  her  side. 

Then  Ate  sitting  in  a  Safe  retreat 

Their  mischief  planned,  and,  shame  to  tell  of, 
As  each  Fate  passed,  her  hand  went  in  the  pot 

Of  gifts,  and  slyly  filched  therefrom  a  bit. 

To  some  was  given  genius,  to  some  hope 
Courage  to  some,  and  faith  to  do  and  dare; 

But  she  who  carried  truth,  had  spent  her  store, 
And  emptiness  was  all,  Ate,  found  there. 

When  far  dispersed  the  gods,  and  Fate  had  gone. 

Ate  crept  forth  and  in  the  twilight  dim, 
Beautiful  and  grand,  she  fashioned  out  a  man, 

And  lavished  all  her  golden  gifts  on  him. 

Then   startled,    half    drew   back,    afraid, 
Her  red  lips  closing  in  a  childish  pout 

Courage  and  genius,  faith  and  hope  were  his, 
And  yet  the  maiden  mischief  was  in  doubt. 

"No  truth,  what  is  the  creature  worth,"  she  said, 
"No  truth,  no  truth,  what  can  I  use  him  for?" 
Then  suddenly  her  rippling  laugh  rang  out: 


She  kissed  him  saying:   "Be  an  Editor." 

And   that   delightful   charm   all   others   lack, 
Which  never  in  an  Editor  you  miss, 

That  Light,   insouciant  bon  comradeire, 
Is  consequent  of  naughty  Ate's  kiss. 


Long-  years  ago,  when  the  echoing-  wind 
Swept  o'er  miles  of  prairie  land, 
When  the  whiterobed  moon  only  rose  at  night, 
Swept  o'er  miles  of  prairie  land, 

Here  on  the  banks  of  the  Brazos  wide, 
Dwelt  a  tribe  of  Indians,  fierce  and  proud, 
And  oft  in  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
The  hills  would  ring  with  their  war-cry  loud. 

Harsh  in  battle,  stern  in  peace, 
They  kept  the  other  tribes  at  bay. 
And  death  to  the  ones  who  dared  rebel, 
Very  kings   of   their   land   were   they. 

The  little  village  thrived  and  grew, 
Till  the  pale-face  came  with  weapons  strong, 
And  then   the  brave  chiefs  dying  sang, 
Their  last  and  lonely  battle  song, 

The  brown  skinned  babes,  lay  cold  and  dead, 
In   the   shadow   of   the   old   chief's  tent, 
And  in  the  glowing  of  the  dawn, 
The  whites  in  triumph,  came  and  went. 

The  years  slipped  by — The  river's  depths 
Are  spanned  by  the  bridges  wide  and  tall 
Where  the  wigwams  stood,  great  factories  are, 
And    engine   smoke   drifts   over   all. 

i 

The  beaten  path  is  a  wide  paved  street, 
And  here  in  the  spot  where  the  wild  mustang, 


Shook  its  flowing  mane  in  the  silence  free 
Here  where  the  dove  to  its  loved  mate  sang, 
Stand  houses  and  trees,  and  tall  church  spires, 
And  electric  cars  glide  swiftly  on, 
And  the  hillside  spring  gushes  forth  in  a  stream, 
But  we  sometimes  think  of  the  race  long  gone. 

And  we  wonder  what  would  the  Wacoes  say 
Could  they  see  their  struggling  village — now, 
Would  they  stand  submissive,  with  sad  dazed  eyes 
And  low  at  the  feet  of  the  conquerer  bow? 
And  we  dream  of  a  phantom  shape  that  flits, 
High   in   the   moonlight   over   the   town, 
And  lost  in  the  memory  of  the  past, 
With  a  weary  sigh  looks  wistfully  down. 

And  we  think  the  old  chief  is  reconciled 
When  he  looks  on  the  change  the  years  have 

wrought, 

And  content  to  sleep  with  his  own  loved  tribe, 
And  give  way  to  the  peace  with  his  own  blood 

bought. 


He  passes  sometimes  in  the  early  dawn 
With   rope   hung   over   his  arm. 

A  stout  little  man  with  a  quick,  brisk  step 
And  a  face  of  meek  alarm. 

He  fastens  his  eyes  upon  each  grazing  herd. 

To   see  if  his   own   be  there, 
Then  lost  in  the  distance,  I  watch  him  go, 

To  look  for  her  everywhere. 

He  is  always  hunting  that  cow  of  his; 

Though  he  fastens  her  up  at  night, 
With  morning's  dawn  she  is  out  and  gone, 

O'er  hill  and  away  from  sight. 

She  evades  his  search  sometimes  for  days. 

One  night  with  a  lantern  he   passed, 
On  his  same  old  weary,  monotonous  trail, 

While  rain  fell  thick  and  fast. 

I've  grown  to  watch  for  him  now  to  come, 
Quick    o'er   the   low    hill's    brow. 

He's  part  of  the  landscape — part  of  the  day, 
For   he's   always   hunting   his    cow. 


iimtlj  nf  itr. 
Att  Arftst 


Like  one  who  lieth  down  to  pleasant  dreams, 

He  fell  asleep  upon  a  Summer's  day. 
Brief  was  his  summons — briefer  still  the  end, 

When  passed  from  earth  to  heav'n  his  soul 

away. 
Surrounded  by  the  work  he  loved  so  well, 

Among  enchanted  mountain's  purple  mist, 
While  wild  birds  poured  to  heav'n  their  vesper 
song1, 

From  vales  by  Summer's  wanton  glory  kissed. 

He  fell  asleep,   his  long,  long  journey  done, 

Leaving  no  half  regret  or  hope  behind; 
And  they  he  strove  by  gentle  means,  to  teach, 

Not  soon  his  kind  and  simple  like  may  find. 
He  loved  his  Art,  with  that  unerring  faith, 

Which  makes  its  object  dear  as  honor  is. 
He  was  content  when  canvas  held,  and  kept 

Some  one  of  Nature's  wondrous  mysteries. 

The  fields  of  sunflowers  he  was  wont  to  limn, 

Fading  away  in  one  pale,  yellow  drift, 
And  Texas  skies,  so  sunny,  blue  and  fair, 
Or   prairie,    swept   by   sand-storm — blinding, 

swift, 
Cool    little    streams,    where    light   and   shadow 

played, 

Cotton    fields,    which    seemed    like    Summer 
snow, 


Vistas  of  humble  azure  clover  bloom, 

These  were  his  own — because  he  loved  them  so. 

His  purpose  was  to  lift  to  purer  heights, 

Love  of  the  Beautiful,  and  thus  impart 
A  yearning  for  the  Good,  and  deep  desire 

To  reach  Perfection's  goal  in  every  heart. 
Sonorous  as  the  chime  which  told  his  hour, 

Sonorous  as  his  solemn  funeral  knell, 
The  hearts  of  they  who  followed  to  his  tomb, 

Did  beat  in  mournful  measure  a  farewell. 

Oh,  Clover!     Blossom  on  his  silent  grave; 

Oh  Mockingbird,  pour  out  your  melody 
Above  the  semblance  of  the  man  we  loved, 

Whose  soul  has  put  on  Immortality! 


Taps!   Lights  out!      Stacked  arms! 

At  the  end  is  the  last  long  tramp. 
Let  him  sleep  till  the  bugles'  reveille  call 

Shall  awake  the  celestial  camp. 

One   more  picket  off  duty, 

Who  the  silent  vigils  kept; 
No  matter  how  stormy  or  dark  the  night, 

He   faltered  not — nor  slept. 

Gone   from   the   fray  and   action, 
Is  his  pure  and  spotless  soul, 

No  more  will  he  stand  on  the  tented  field, 
In    answer    to    muster    roll. 

With  the  hosts  of  troops  supernal, 
He  shall  pass  in  glad  review; 

And  the  King  on  His  throne  will  find  him, 
Honored   and  trusted  and  true. 


Breathe  softly  one  last  bugle  tribute, 

As    sounds    each    falling    clod; 
"Loyal  to  home  and  country — 

Faithful  to  man  and  God." 

Taps!     Lights  out!    Off  duty! 

Purl   the   flag   across   his   breast; 
And  leave  him  to  sleep,  till  reveille's  sound, 

The  sleep  of  a  hero  at  rest. 


(A  bit  of  verse  dedicated  to  my  cousin,  Cai>t. 
Robley  D.  Evans.) 

When  the  boys  go  marching  by, 
With  their  guns  and  coats  of  blue, 

I  think  that  I  feel  what  our  mothers  felt, 

In  the  days  of  sixty-two. 

There's  a  tremor  about  my  heart, 

And  soft  tears  in  my  eye; 

And  to  me  they  all  are  heroes, 
When  the  boys  go  marching  by. 

When   the  boys  go  marching  by, 

In    the   gray   of   the   early   dawn, 
I   turn   from  the  window  away  to   hide 

My  tears — when  they  are  gone. 
And  I  wonder  if  some  mother's  son 

Will  in  far  off  Cuba  die, 
Away  from  the  sun-kissed  soil  of  his  birth, 

When  the  boys  go  marching  by. 

When  the  boys  go  marching  by, 

So   proud   and   erect   and   true, 
Who  have   offered   their   lives  and   hearts   and 
hands 

Their  country's  will  to  do; 
I  catch  up  my  toddling  boy, 

And    I    turn    away    and    sigh, 
And  I'm  glad — and  I'm  sorry  he  is  not  one 

Of    the    boys    that    are    marching    by. 


MXAA, 


Christmas  in 


Christmas?    Yes?   Why   it   seems   like   June! 
Hear  the  wildbird's  melody,  all  in  tune. 
See  the  Summer's  glory,  on  sky  and  sea! 
Christmas,  you  say?     Can  it  really  be? 
The  bells  ring  out  on  the  perfumed  air, 
With  the  odor  of  roses  everywhere. 
The  violet  droops  and  hangs  its  head, 
In  the  shadow  cool  of  its  mossy  bed, 
While  the  butterfly  poised  on  its  silken  wing, 
Flits  past — a  shimmering,  shadowy  thing, 
Like  a  soul  drawn  back  by  the  love  of  earth, 
To  visit  once  more  its  place  of  birth. 
How  the  bold  poinsettias  scarlet  flame, 
Flaunts  her  wanton  beauty,  to  all  the  same, 
And  the  odor  of  tuberose  pale  and  sweet, 
Sends  its  cloying  breath  to  our  very  feet, 
While  the  regal  lilly  stands  in  pride, 
Arrayed  in  white,  like  a  virgin  bride. 
Like  a  ball  of  fire  the  sun  glides  on, 
Through  the  blaze  of  noon,  from  the  birth  of 

dawn, 

And  crimsons  the  sky  in  his  majesty, 
As  he  drops  from  sight  in  a  golden  sea, 
In  a  languorous  dream  we  scan  the  bay, 
At  the  glorious  end  of  Christmas  day. 

Christmas?    Strange!     Then  we  close  our  eyes, 
And  shut  out  the  gleam  of  sunkissed  skies, 
And  before  our  vision,  in  dim  review, 
Comes  another  Christmas,  that  once  we  knew, 
The  air  is  crisp  and  the  wind  is  chill, 


And  the  soft  snow  drifts  over  vale  and  hill. 

And  smoke  curls  up  from  each  chimney  throat, 

As  robins  utter  a  tender  note. 

The  trees  are  leafless — the  gardens  bare. 

Not  a  vestige  of  blossom,  anywhere, 

And  even  the  snowdrop  reaching  up, 

To  catch  the  light  in  her  crystal  cup, 

Catches  instead,  from  His  icy  breath, 

In  her  perfumed  chalice,  the  wine  of  Death. 

But   Ah!    what   a   happy   busy  throng, 
Treads  the  market  place,  the  whole  day  long. 
The  streets  are  gay  with  noise  and  mirth, 
In  festive  joy  for  the  Saviour's  birth, 
While  the  very  beggar,  whose  wrinkled  hand, 
Makes  of  your  purse  a  just  demand, 
Smiles  as  he  hobbles  and  limps  away, 
And  shows  he  is  glad  it  is  Christmas  day. 
The  children  shout,  and  the  snowballs  fly, 
As  the  jingling  bells  of  the  sleigh  go  by, 
And  a  glad  cry  rings  through  the  world  again. 
"Peace  on  Earth  and  Good  Will  to  Men!" 

We  sigh  for  the  East — and  we  sing  with  the  West. 
Which  Christmas  day  do  we  love  the  best? 


(Eljanig 


It  was  Christmas  time — it  was  Christmas  tide, 
By  the  soft,  pure,  garment  of  drifted  snow, 
That  lay  outspread  on  the  whole  world  wide; 
Within  a  mansion  there  shone  a  glow, 
And  gleam  of  light;  and  clear  sweet  strains, 
A  chanting  of  Yuletide's  glad  refrains. 

With  holly  and  cedar  the  room  was  decked, 
The  tree  in  the  midst  hung  a  glitter  with  toys, 
With  flash  of  candle  and  tinsel  hung, 
With  gift  and  gladness  and  Christmas  joys; 
And  around  were  gathered  in  youth's  delight, 
A  crowd  to  welcome  the  Christmas  night. 

Silk    and    satin    and    jewel    and    fur, 
Dark   eyes   lit  with   a  joy  intense, 
But  Ruth  was  the  fairest  of  all  and  her 
Sweet  face  shone  in  its  innocence, 
Quick  and   eager  and  gay  was  she, 
And  the  belle  of  the  Christmas  revelry. 

In  the  midst  of  the  frolic  a  cry  was  heard. 
Out   in   the   dark — in  the  street  alone, 
Cold  as  a  poor  little  wounded  bird, 
Stood  a  beggar  child  on  the  cold  step  stone; 
And  with  curious  eyes  that  meant  no  sin. 
To   amaze  and   dazzle — they  let  her  in. 

"Give  her  some  cake,"  one  said,  and  turned 
Away  to  a  corner  with  dainties  piled, 
Where  a  beautiful  silver  astral  burned, 


And  brought  and  gave  to  the  weeping  child. 
"No!  let's  give  her  a  book,"  said  one; 
"The  pictures  will  be  to  her  lots  of  fun." 

But  in  piteous  grief  the  child  wept  on — 
Though  with  joy  and  mirth  the  room  was  rife. 
'Till — "Let  us  give  her  a  doll" — said  one. 
"She  may  never  have  had  one,  in  all  her  life." 
From  the  topmost  bough,  they  reached  it  down; 
But  she  hid  her  face  in  her  tattered  gown. 

"Then  what  do  you  want  little  girl?"  said  Ruth. 
Ruth  could  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone, 
When  she  lifted  her  eyes  full  of  innocent  truth, 
And  coaxed  and  pleaded  in  such  a  tone. 
Then  the  child  flashed  up — "Can  I  help  crying, 
When  hungry  and  cold,  my  mother  is  dying?" 

"You  offer  me  food  and  toys — but  who 

Of  all  this  crowd  would  follow  me  there, 

Where  in  dirt  and  rags,  she  is  lying  alone, 

And  kiss  her  and  breathe  for  her  soul  a  prayer? 

I  do  not  want  your  toys  and  cake — 

But  a  woman's  love — for  my  mother's  sake." 

There  was  breathless  silence — then  one  by  one, 
With  murmur  and  jest  away  they  turned, 
And  the  same  old  wrong  again  was  done, 
And  the  beggar  was  left  unpitied  and  spurned; 
She   crouched   in   a  corner,   and   shivered   and 

cried, 
And  none  of  them  thought  of  the  crucified. 

"I  will  go,"  said  Ruth.  Then  they  said,  "Ah,  why, 
Should  you  for  this  beggar,  our  evening  spoil?" 
What  is  the  use  if  the  woman  must  die? 
She  will  be  released  from  a  life  of  toil." 


"Take  care  of  the  child,  help  her,"  they  said, 
"Anyhow,  beggars  are  better  off — dead." 

Her  beautiful  eyes,  and  beautiful  face! 

She   put   them   to  shame  as  she  stood   like  a 

queen, 

Wrapping  the  beggar  with  tender  grace, 
And   gentle   dignity  seldom   seen. 
Then   she   threw   on   her   hood  and   cloak  and 

smiled, 
And  out  in  the  darkness  went  with  the  child. 

Ah,  why  should  I  tell  of  what  she  found, 
Of  hunger,  poverty,  want  and  despair, 
Of  starved  out  body  and  starved  out  soul, 
Of  rickety  roof  or  of  rickety  stair; 
In  pity  she  watched  all  night  by  her  side, 
And  in  Ruth's  white  arms  the  woman — died. 

Ah,  Ruth!   It  is  years  since  that  Christmas  night. 
The  snows  have  for  twenty  years  whitened  your 

mound, 

Covering  you  over  with  mantel  white, 
Folding  you  in  from  all  sight  and  all  sound — 
But  hot  tears  fall  and  lashes  are  wet, 
Recalling  a  Christmas  I   cannot  forget. 


A 


imj 


Do  you  recall  the  day  on  the  sands, 
And  the  sound  of  the  waves  soft  sighing, 
Your  eyes  sought  mine,   and  we   clasped   our 

hands, 

And  our  hearts  were  in  joy  replying. 
For  oh  it  was  sweet  by  the  low  tuned  sea, 
To  picture  our  lives  auspicious — 
The  cup  was  full — we  took  but  a  sip — 
But  oh  was  it  not  delicious. 

We  wrote  our  names,  do  you  still  recall, 
And  we  drew  a  ring  around  them, 
Then  our  rioting  hearts  made  us  blind  to  all, 
Till  the  mad  hearted  waves  had  found  them, 
Like    our    sweet    summer    dream,    they    were 

washed  from  sight, 
By  a  hateful  tide — and  vicious, 
The  cup  was  full — we  took  but  a  sip — 
But,  oh  was  it  not  delicious? 


^  UNIVERSITY  V 

• 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


MAR  3G  1936 


LD  21-100m-7,'33 


1179 


